There’s a tribe of women in their 30s and 40s who have screamed at the top of their lungs “I am not a pretty girl!”
Whether you were joining in song at an Ani Difranco concert or snarling it at your dorm room mirror, it was such a relief to tell the world not to takes its eyes your eyes, tits, and waistline. “Don’t bother judging me, folks,” we were declaring. “I won’t be part of your campus beauty contests and I refuse to be some maiden fair.”
I think I was lying. Yes, I wanted to be valued for a hell of a lot more than my looks, but I was just singing along to drone out a deep, ugly sadness.
Though I wore my feminist heart on my sleeve, it always deserved to have an asterisk beside it. I never quite gave up the hope that when I grew up I would be pretty. That Ani song didn’t become my anthem because I’d evolved beyond “pretty” or because I insisted on being valued for something more important and enduring.
Mostly, I hummed that song to myself because I hated my face and my body so much.
But what about being a “sexy girl”?
Fast forward a decade or so. It’s Hurricane Sandy and I’m riding out the storm with friends lucky enough to have electricity and a phone. We decide to book Vedic astrology readings with this guy in West Virginia.
There was a slight delay because he had to borrow a friend’s cassette recorder to tape the phone calls. This was rather endearing in 2012. It also proved that he probably wasn’t looking at my Facebook profile when he told me that, according to my stars and planets, I was “what they call a sexy girl.”
I laughed, but I didn’t say “no I’m not!” As the mother of a three-year-old who spent way too much time working from home in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, this was nice to hear.
There’s an asterisk here too, though. (Ok, so depending on your opinion of astrology you may think this whole story is inadmissible, but bear with me). Apparently, the elements of my chart just didn’t add up. The astrologer declared that my birth time had to be off by about 40 minutes.
Here’s the thing, the timing of my birth is actually part of family lore. Until this fellow told me otherwise, I proudly accepted the truth that I was born under the sign of Gemini on June 17 at 6:17 PM. This also happened to be my mother’s 29th birthday and Father’s Day to boot. My mom isn’t around to ask, but my dad swears the timing was exact. Of course, my father also swears that my sister and I were perfect children, so I just don’t know.
Apparently, I could either be sexy (in the cosmic sense) or I could be the 6-17 kid.
Will beautiful do?
Right now, my jeans feel uncomfortable because the “I can eat anything; I’m nursing!” magic has worn off. The bags under my eyes are looking like suitcases. Everything aches and feels likes it’s the wrong size.
For once, I don’t really mind.
Maybe it's the new lipstick. Perhaps it's because I stole a few extra moments to wear something that I really liked. Ultimately, I guess it is just because I knew I walked through my day knowing that I wanted to tell as story about accepting the skin I'm in.
Today, in that ShopRite full of so many gray, defeated people who filled their carts with frozen meals and paper plates, I felt like I was glowing.
I think I was feeling pretty. I’m sure I was feeling as sexy as a woman could while wiping a little girl’s nose. I know I felt beautiful.
I made eye contact with people and gave them a smile that seemed to well up from deep within my belly, from a place that would never feel the pinch of too-tight jeans. I didn’t want the other shoppers to notice whether I was good looking enough. I just wanted to share what felt a lot like simple, unencumbered peace and joy.
Please share this story with someone beautiful and tell me if you used to sing "Not a Pretty Girl" too.
My baby lay on my chest, warm and wet from being born just moments before. I called my parents to announce they were grandparents - again. This was their 10th, but my first. Still high on the other side of giving birth, I looked at her impossibly tiny fingernails, and dialed. My Dad picked up on the first ring shouting with joy. Mom got on next and the minute I heard her voice, I burst into tears.
Barb Buckner Suárez works with expectant couples as they are preparing to become a family. She believes that every woman should have a birth story worth telling. You can find more of her writing at 
Anyone could blame the weather. 
The morning was shorter than it was supposed to be.
Our little one was awake half the night asking to use the potty and singing every song she knew, so we needed that extra hour of sleep. We missed the bus and I was crazy late for playgroup drop off, but this was my one, precious day alone in the house and I was going to do amazing things even if I'd lost 90 minutes already.
One Friday, my Mom and I spent the day in the kitchen talking about a revolution. Well, we were whispering about the stuff that eventually leads to revolution. We were talking about the state of the world and daring to examine our fears and entertain all the “what ifs?”
Thanks to taxes and a toddler, I’m working on three hours of sleep. 
“Part of me suspects that I'm a loser, and the other part of me thinks I'm God Almighty.”
I wake up almost every morning happy. I crank open my eyes to assess 
Suzi is an artist, actress, writer, teacher, community organizer, and mom. She’s passionate about helping women find their creative voice and live focused, joy-filled lives.
There comes a moment in every child’s life when she stands at the top of the stairs crying “mommy, I need you!”
Will they ever find out that Mike is a fraud?
I prefer mountains of laundry to mere hillocks. So, when I enter a marathon sorting and folding session, I know there will be plenty of time for introspection.
“Mom, does every story hafta have a bad guy?”
The forecast was bad. Boston didn’t know it yet, but it was halfway through the snowiest winter on record and Valentine’s Day was bringing more than roses and the chocolate. We were hurtling along the MassPike right into the not-so-candy heart of a blizzard.
If you wanted to flatter me when I was twenty, you would ask you to help you analyze a poem. Yeats and the handful of Irish women poets who found their voices at the turn of our own century were my specialty.
Glasses clink and voices rise and fall. Sudden laughter startled the toddler whose trying to sleep hours after her bedtime.
It's a family gathering, and though too many of us are missing, it has its own perfection.
Yesterday while I was drinking tea – my morning ritual when life isn’t too chaotic – a sudden flutter of shadows dappled the wall. I jumped up and turned to the window to see a huge flock of birds settling in the trees outside, their noise audible through glass and wood. It felt like a revelation, like a benediction. Things are on the wing. Change is coming. Good change, I think. If I had lived in another time, I would have been an ornithomancer. I study the flights of birds for wordless messages, their calligraphy etched dark against the winter sky.
“Oh, Marisa!” exclaimed a new client. “We worked together so long ago, but I have had your name filed away in my mind. When I saw one of your Strong Stories I knew that I had to call you.”
Midday on Super Tuesday 2008 we were still undecided. I paced in front of the Vassar library on my lunch hour, flip phone pressed to my ear.
We’re a football family, but I feel there should be an asterisk beside our names.
At our house, there’s a love for the game and even for the hype. But there is also a whole lot of ambivalence.
On the drive to Sunday School I count the cars in the local restaurant parking lot. It’s a nice place with creative food, but there are rarely more than one or two cars. The hand scrawled “Brunch” sign looks more forlorn each week.